They were sure to catch up with her. The big gray spaces of London, the shop-lit, greasy, shining streets, had become very remote; the biological laboratory with its work and emotions, the meetings and discussions, the rides in hansoms with Ramage, were like things in a book read and closed. “Do come and see the Michaelmas daisies at the end of the garden,” said Mr. “I do not lay claim,” he continued, “to any remarkable amount of insight, but it is possible, is it not, that I have stumbled upon your present cause of distress. Across that world was written in letters of light, “Endowment of Motherhood.
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